Francine’s pink satin ballet slippers were surrounded by a dozen smudged, dusty sneakers, the canvas frayed and the rubber soles splitting and torn.
There was a conversation, words he couldn’t understand, and didn’t want to know, sounds like strange chanting, like invectives, and then more shouting, screaming, snarling, growling.
Francine’s backpack dropped to the ground as the pink slippers rose up and out of sight.
Gus belly-crawled around to the back of the truck and peeked around the rear left tire.
Francine yelled for help, screaming his name over and over, like a mantra. The tone of her voice was at first a demand but soon became a whimpering plea. Gus was frozen. What could he do? He had no weapon, no formal training in any of the martial arts, no way to defend her. The driver, who was also their security guard, had been big and burly and strong and fearless and still had been overpowered and easily killed. What could Gus do in the face of an angry mob determined to carry out whatever shameless evil had invaded their collective consciences?
There was nothing he could do, he thought, paralyzed with fear as the villagers carried out their heinous savagery.
2
Zanzibar
Wiggling his toes in warm, white sand, Leo Bronson basked in the balmy, salty ocean breeze.
Marveling at the brilliant blue sky and turquoise water, Leo sighed contentedly.
Yesterday, he and Vivian Thomas, his girlfriend of the past three years, had flown to Zanzibar, a series of islands in the Indian Ocean located off the coast of Tanzania, in East Africa.
Though technically rivals—he worked for the New York Times while Vivian shilled for the Washington Post—they often collaborated on stories, sharing sources and conducting joint investigations into the crime and corruption that was so prevalent in war-ravaged sub-Saharan Africa.
Following several huge stories last month, they’d decided to take a weekend getaway to paradise. Yesterday, they had spent the day sightseeing. Sometimes arm and arm, other times holding hands, they took their time through the narrow streets of Stone Town, the capital, visiting craft shops, art galleries, fabric stalls, and quaint coffee shops. Without any worries about deadlines, they’d happily lost their way within the labyrinth of ancient streets.
Early that morning, they’d left the capital, and after a trip down a picturesque road lined with banana palms, mangroves, and coconut trees, they’d arrived in Nungwi, at the northern tip of the island. Once settled in their vacation rental, a quaint cottage on the beach, surrounded by lush vegetation, they’d ventured out to the pristine white sand beach.
Vivian was a complete mermaid and gravitated to the crystal clear waters, but Leo was fine with napping on a chaise, catching rays and thinking about nothing.
Vivian walked out of the water, like Ursula Andres in that iconic cinematic scene from “Dr. No” as the afternoon sun blazed bright. Instantly aroused, Leo smiled and indulged in the spectacular sight of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Smiling, squeezing water from her long braids, she walked toward him, hips swaying, her skin tanned to a golden caramel which contrasted perfectly with her white bikini. Leo had never believed in chance encounters until he met her, on a cruise of the Nile River, four years ago. As far as he was concerned, it was the best day of his life.
If Leo ever changed his mind about getting married, Vivian would be the only woman he could imagine walking down the aisle toward him. But, he wasn’t going to change his mind about marriage, and besides, he was sure Viv felt the same way he did about holy matrimony. Their relationship was great. No need for a piece of paper to ruin things.
Moments later, Vivian stretched out on top of him. Wet from the ocean and yet warm from the sun, the sensual combination drove him crazy as they kissed. Caressing her ass with one hand, he trailed his other hand along the spine of her back, to the strings of her bikini top.
A jaunty African tribal drumbeat cut through the air.
Leo groaned. “My cell phone.”
“You going to answer it?” asked Vivian as the drumbeat continued.
Completely uninterested in whoever was calling, Leo refocused his efforts on untying the strings.
Seconds later, the drum beats ceased. Vivian pressed her mouth on his as Leo pulled the strings of her bikini top, and—
The tribal drumbeats started again.
Leo cursed.
Head lifted several inches, Vivian said, “Someone’s persistent.”
Reaching beneath the chaise, Leo moved his fingers through the warm sand and closed his hand around the phone. Wishing he'd left the annoying device inside the beach cottage, he glanced at the screen.
“Who is it?” asked Vivian, resting her cheek against his chest.
Frowning at the name on the caller-ID, he said, “An old friend from prep school. Wes Weschenfelder.”
“Wes Weschenfelder?” Vivian giggled. “That’s his real name?”
“His name is Wilhelm Weschenfelder, but everyone calls him Wes,” Leo explained. “He’s the founder of a non-profit organization, based in Malawi, dedicated to rural education. I haven't heard from him in years.”
“Wonder want he wants?”
“Probably another donation,” said Leo, cutting the phone off and pulling Vivian into his arms. “I’ll send him a check.”
Hours later, over dinner, Vivian asked him, “Have you given any more thought to the message from Wes?”
“Not exactly.” Leo took a sip of Ice pilsner.
Vivian asked, “Are you going to help him out?”
Exhaling, Leo leaned back in his chair.
After several rounds of sex on the beach—which had nothing to do with vodka, peach schnapps, and orange juice—he and Vivian had taken a nap, and upon waking, Leo checked his phone and realized that Wes had called him a third time.
The message Wes had left him was curious and disturbing.
He wanted help getting answers surrounding the brutal murder of a school principal who worked for his
